We solve crimes
by TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot
Summary: It's been your average Sunday morning on Baker Street: tea, toast and bloody murder.
1. One

**Kate (AKA the death frisbee) challenged me with 'something I would not otherwise write' this month.**

**I chose to tell a case through John and Sherlock's blog posts.**

Constructive critisism is most welcome!

* * *

**The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson  
25****th**** February  
**  
It's been your average Sunday morning on Baker Street: tea, toast and bloody murder.

It all started when Greg burst in and announced a body had been found. Our flat has seen its fair share of visitors over the last few years, from the highest class to the lowest, but the detective inspector only makes a house call when something big has happened. Obviously after sulking all morning, scaring Mrs Hudson off and setting two fires in under an hour, Sherlock sat up and paid attention.

He didn't. Of course he didn't. Have you met Sherlock?

However, if he ever gives you that apathetic, lazy, lower-than-dirt look while you explain a case (God help you) I can confirm it is completely 100% fake. If it isn't, he's already shouted you out of the flat for being boring. After threatening not to put out fire number three and to, in fact, throw in his case files, his precious violin and anything else that came to hand, he agreed to leave the flat.

(Not the skull. You never threaten the skull.)

Greg was waiting for us when the cab pulled up- God forbid we should just ride with him, though His Royal Highness at least let me share the taxi this time which is rare and- where was I?

Oh yeah.

We were at the Lanesborough Hotel, one of the top-notch places for rich gits in London. The room we saw goes for eight grand a night- _eight grand! _I bet Mycroft would stay there if his house blew up half as much as ours does.

The poor woman bleeding all over the floor ruined the vibe a bit.

The truth is, no matter what I might tell Sherlock, it's always a bit sad really. She was only young, twenty-something, pale with dark hair all twisted up at the nape of her neck. Expensive looking clothes. Pretty. At least she had been, but her face was twisted into such an awful look of fear everyone but Sherlock backed right off.

Time of death around 2am, cause of death a stab wound in the throat measuring at least four inches and- God- the ring finger of the left hand missing.

Hacked off.

I guess by now you're wondering why we were there, so here's the deal. The Official Secrets Act prevents me from actually giving you a name, but the suite is being rented by a politician. You know him. You know you do. Name in the papers every week for the last six months, bribery, expenses, mistresses, the whole deal.

At the time of this post, he is still missing.

The woman's name was not on the guest register. No I.D, no known friends, family or career, no leads whatsoever.

After Sherlock asked his usual array of questions from the straight forward ("How long has he been renting the room?") to the intrusive ("Do you run background checks on the staff?") to the downright bizarre, ("Did he order room service last night?") well, the genius ditched me in a coffee shop and he's swanned off to complain that his tea isn't at exactly 60c or something.

Hey, did you know they have wi-fi everywhere now?

**5 Comments**

OMG! Sounds exciting, keep us updated! (and I've taught you about wi-fi before little brother, you owe me a proper thanks if you're updating on your phone!) xxx

**Harry Watson **15.06

John, had to go. Meet me at Baker Street at 5pm.

**Sherlock Holmes** 15.08

You couldn't just come and tell me?

**John Watson** 15.11

You were all the way across the room. It seemed easier this way. Besides, do you know how painful it is to watch you type 533 words on your phone?

**Sherlock Holmes** 15.12

Good luck boys!

**Mike Stamford** 16.43


	2. Two

**The Science of Deduction  
****Case Files  
****  
The Girl with the Missing Finger  
****Status: Ongoing Case  
**  
A woman has been found dead in the Royal suite of the Lanesborough hotel. Her carotid artery has been severed and her ring finger is missing. Lestrade has called me in to find the murder suspect- the (corrupt, according to John and his sad addiction to mass media) politician renting the rooms.

I accepted the case because the man is innocent.

On arriving at the crime scene, the situation became clear.

She was wearing expensive clothes, spotless apart from the blood, and- yes- the labels were still attached. She would have returned them later, no doubt to a designer shop known for their discretion.

The hint of perfume on the air was Chanel No. 5, a classic scent, hardly cheap by modern standards. The jewellery at her neckline and wrists was real. I have no doubt her underwear was brand-new boutique.

(Lestrade looked a bit surprised, but I wouldn't expect him to follow my reasoning.)

She was expected. The aftershave splashed in haste on the bathroom counter, the elegant touches in the room designed to appeal to a woman's sensibilities, the rumpled sheets...

A woman invited to a private hotel suite overnight. A woman showered with gifts, but an income too low to cover either the endless money she invests in her own appearance or her previous debts- perhaps both. A woman who knows she will not be wearing her clothes long enough to matter.

She was a high-class prostitute.

Given the type of people she was catering to and the fact that she walked to the hotel in the rain last night at approximately 10pm, there was only one establishment she could have been working at.

We'll go there tonight.

Update: Deducing the dead girl's closest confidant was hardly the work of an hour. The story was leaked, the local news full of her death, but no friends or relatives have come forward. A casual inquiry into the company's services proved the girls are petty, jealous and cut-throat competitive. The manager speaks no English.

This left the 'musician' (John informs me that I'm being condescending and I should call him a dee-jay because that's obviously not demeaning) and the bar staff.

Only one man worked the same shift.

He was, as I feared, almost worse than useless. However, with a touch of persuasion that went unnoticed in a place used to the stench of corruption, faceless anonymity turned into sleazy arrogance turned into gibbering fear and he actually managed to offer two pieces of useful information.

The first: her name.

Miss Marie St. Honour AKA the luscious Lenore AKA Candy Stripper.

Apparently promotion is possible in any profession.

The second: her little black book.

Of course John found the murder suspect's name, why wouldn't he? I am not denying that they had an intimate relationship, paid or otherwise, or that he was present the night of the murder.

That's not the name I'm looking for.

The name I'm looking for is the one that's missing.

**0 comments**


	3. Three

**The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson  
26****th ****February **

There are days when I worry about Sherlock's sanity.

Mostly days that have an 'a' in them.

I couldn't have guessed the day would end with us barging past a burly tattooed Russian into a tarted up strip club to steal evidence... but I really should have.

Thankfully it was a bit of a high-class joint and we didn't have to act like the average punter. Sherlock has talent, I mean the man can _act_, but I think this was a bit outside his experience. The charade only lasted as long as it took him to storm through the cigar smoke and Scotch fumes up to a bloke at the bar and wave Lestrade's latest badge at him.

(Sorry Greg, you really can't take your eye off him for a minute. Mrs Hudson found two more in his sock drawer. I'll give them back later.)

We retreated pretty quickly after we got what we needed.

It turns out the great consulting detective will insult the intelligence of a man built like mount Elbrus without batting an eyelid, or flout "those law things" like a hardened criminal, but when a quite nice redhead glanced in his direction one too many times he couldn't get out of there fast enough.

To be honest, it was probably lucky we got back to Baker Street before we had a look, I needed a cuppa and a bit of a sit down after reading it.

Marie-Lenore-Candy, stripper extraordinaire, was quite the social climber. And political climber. And celebrity climber.

I imagine there has been a lot of prolonged silences and awkward eye contact at the top parties in London over our girl.

Obviously I'm judging by the thirty-second glance I got at the 'little black book' because obviously Sherlock snatched it off me and read it cover to cover and upside down and inside out and obviously he's now on the sofa brooding about it.

He's going to be there all night.

I'll update later.

It's definitely later... if by later you mean I haven't been to bed yet.

I should have known I was tempting fate by complaining about the hotel yesterday afternoon. Anything would have seemed tacky after the grandeur of Lanesborough, but Sherlock woke me up just as I had fallen asleep last night and dragged me to a hotel where dreams go to die. Dreams and cockroaches.

In room 203, wrapped in last season's stained dressing gown, last week's dirty socks and yesterday's despair was the end of our search.

One politician, definitely not camera-ready.

Any sensible person would have taken one look at his swollen eyes, seamed face, boozy gut and figured that yeah, this guy was pretty much guilty about something, and that was before he opened his mouth.

Sherlock is not any sensible person.

He listened to that low, primal, _guilty _moan for about point-five of a second before he cut across it and started questioning the man about... of all things... his marriage.

How long had he been married? Why wasn't he at home with his wife? Where was his wife now?

Here's the thing, though.

Sherlock knew the answers to those questions. He was just looking for a reaction. I've seen him interrogate enough poor souls to know.

He told me last night that the murderer is male.

What is he playing at?  
**  
9 Comments**

John, if you haven't observed my methods and deduced 'what I'm playing at' you're a useless case. You're making me sound normal.

**Sherlock Holmes** 6.43

Oh, I'm sorry, have you solved it yet?

**John Watson** 6.45

Irrelevant.

**Sherlock Holmes** 6.46

Quite relevant actually. I give up. I'm going to bed.

**John Watson** 6.51

Don't give up lads!

**Mike Stamford**7.34

I do hope you don't bring any of these people back to the flat boys! Would you like some breakfast?

**Mrs Hudson** 7.50

Dull, Mrs Hudson.

**Sherlock Holmes** 8.01

this is the face of britain?

**Anonymous** 10.57

OMG! Little Johnny in a strip club! I'm going to tell mum! (Did you get my text?) xxx

**Harry Watson** 11.12


	4. Four

**The Science of Deduction  
****Case Files  
****  
The Girl with the Missing Finger  
****Status: Ongoing Case**

One look at the pathetic snivelling politician wrapped in a hostel bathrobe confirmed all of my suspicions.

This man is guilty of fraud, an interesting little case of arson and obviously of soliciting prostitution but unfortunately for Scotland Yard, not murder.

It was clear from the very beginning this was a boring crime of passion, the woman's missing ring finger was obvious, but that wreck of a man was too hopelessly in love with her to cut her up.

No, the mastermind was the wife.

Oh yes. She is clever, crafty and just as cunning as you would expect a politician's wife to be.

Her lying, cheating, deceiving husband gets carried away in the act of passion, murders his illicit lover and leaves her devastated. She sells the story of indiscretions and her heartache, sells the house she cannot possibly bear to stay in (also worth a small fortune) and takes off on holiday to clear her head- and with such a husband, who will ever blame her?

She's hiding in plain sight.

If it were all so simple I would have had the case solved in five minutes, but with such an elegant plan for an elegant woman, she would never risk getting her own hands dirty.

I can't have Lestrade pop off and arrest her just yet.

I must find the accomplice.

It all comes down to the shoes, but when I visited the shop the staff proved less than helpful, either a stricter moral code than most entangled in this web of lies or more likely paid off by several different people along the line. Other methods are proving time consuming and the hours are running out before the wife jets off to South America.

I provide the following, my reconstruction of the crime, in the hope that an alternative will present itself:

_The victim arrived at the Lanesborough hotel at approximately 10pm in the rain. She came through the back streets and used the staff entrance, where the help have been well paid to turn a blind eye to the depraved sexual appetites of the rich and privileged and their visitors coming and going. (How else could a simple waiter afford the Rolex hidden by his shirt cuff?)_

_She went to his room._

_They spent about three hours together, as far as I can judge, before the politician left her for the night. Given the wife's involvement, I am now certain she called him away, perhaps claiming an emergency involving their children given there isn't a shred of feeling left between them. It would certainly explain why he wouldn't want to be caught leaving with his escort._

_He left discreetly without her through the safe back door given the unsociable hour, and mere moments later the accomplice entered, reaching his room so quickly she opened the door without fear in the assumption her lover was returning for something forgotten (or was it something more cloying like a goodbye kiss? Would she have lived if it weren't for sentiment? Pathetic.)_

_He entered the room without a struggle, and paced in agitation for some time, though no raised voices were heard. She disagrees, he slashes her throat (with his own kitchen knife, no room service, no steak knife) and it's lights out._

_Judging by the bruising on her upper arm, he wore a wedding ring. Not very strong, physically. He had small feet, a short stride and the most tell-tale sign of all: his shoes._

_Classic wing-tip brogues, size eight, with an extremely distinctive sole that actually spells out the maker's name along with their logo. The Heron. Harrys of London._

_Given that a page was also torn out of her little black book (no doubt by the barman for a price) and the fact that she let him into the room, he was also known to her._

I have the pieces to pin down the accomplice- connected to the wife who will be all too wise to an attempt to catch her out, unusual shoes on which the makers will not comment, former client lost by defiling her book- I am thwarted each time I attempt to put them together.

What is my next step?

**3 comments**

Oh my god... Sherlock... I know who it is!

**John Watson** 14.21

No you don't. You? How do you know? You can't. Explain yourself!

**Sherlock Holmes** 14.22

The thing is when you're gone I always end up watching telly with Mrs Hudson, there was this Connie Prince special and- well, never mind, I know! Get ready. I'll explain on the way.

**John Watson** 14.25


	5. Five

**The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson **

**27th February **

If I had known I would one day have an edge over the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, and that edge was too many hours of crap telly-

- well, I wouldn't have worked as hard at life, that's all.

I've already told you about Sherlock. He's brilliant, intuitive and one of a kind. He's also kind of an idiot when it comes to social interaction, (he genuinely believes deduction is an appropriate way to say hello) general knowledge (I got him to a pub quiz once and he stormed out over a question on the solar system) and well, normal people and the way they live their lives.

So how do I know the murderer?

Connie Prince, dear woman, taped a special episode a matter of weeks before her death on- who else?- Britain's politicians. A full hour of dissecting their personal lives, secrets and of course their style. All standard stuff.

There was the demon held up for the audience's disapproval- the drinker, the smoker, the adulterer with his hulking frame and bloodshot eyes and cheap suits. Who would have doubts, given the media spin around him, that he was indeed the murderer? And there was the angel. The father of four, the devoted husband, and the man with a particular predilection for expensive wing-tip brogues from Harrys of London.

Size eight.

Of course, I probably should have waited until we got to Scotland Yard to explain. If I had (instead of blurting out my, well, can I call it a deduction?) we may have caught him with less trouble. It would have made for much less compelling telly.

Having a hissy fit worthy of a six-year old, re-routing the cab, bursting into a televised press conference with our accomplice and a room full of bored press waiting for a scandal-

- It was all far more Sherlock.

The evidence was all circumstantial up to that point. The man had a motive in getting rid of the competition. His shoes _could_ place him at the crime scene but they were not one-of-a-kind. Honestly I had trouble understanding why such a high profile man would put himself in danger. Couldn't he just pay someone to do his dirty work?

Sherlock saw all that. He saw the man's true nature, the years of red tape and documents, that he would lose his job but he would still walk free. He saw and he acted.

At least I hope to hell that was what was running through his mind.

I'm sure you've seen the footage by now. Our very own detective gleefully proclaiming he had solved the murder of our girl for the press and all the world to hear, mindful of how easy it was for an important man to slip away, and eager to confirm just how _right_ he was.

That was how Sherlock got punched in the face by one of the most prominent men in Britain-

- again.

It wasn't the first time and it won't be the last, but I'll admit, it was for a noble cause this time.

Those seconds of footage showing the calm veneer of the man cracking and giving way to the rage bubbling below the surface were enough. It gave his entourage courage to confess his crimes, several women the courage to admit to his abuse and his family the courage to unveil the true face of the man they know. When it came down to it, the only difference between a murder suspect and a murderer in this case was image.

Connie, god rest her soul, obviously knew what she was doing.

Lestrade and Dimmock picked up both of our criminals, (the wife at the airport) the case was promptly laid out and we were home in time for tea.

Sherlock claims to be embarrassed by his face flashing across the news channels every fifteen minutes though I notice he still hasn't turned it off. There's a bit of a smug look in his eyes every time a new visitor comes to watch it with him and fuss over his poor black eye and sprained ankle. Please.

I've seen that man climb the side of a building with broken ribs and a _bit _of a concussion though he denies to this day he was injured.

Still.

It's this or he goes back to trying to give me advice on my love life.

I think we're okay.

**16 comments**

Which other prominent men have punched him? :)

**Sally Donovan**10.46

He had a concussion and broken ribs when he climbed that building? COOL!

**Jacob Sowersby** 11.03

Next time, call me before you go one these escapades! Or at least text, it won't kill you and it would save me from a heart attack!

**Greg Lestrade** 11.16

Sherlock dear, you must simply be more careful. The idea of allowing yourself to get hurt on purpose is appalling! Mrs Turner and I agree that you need to settle down a little. Why don't you take John out to that nice Italian restaurant you both like so well? It would do you both a world of good.

**Mrs Hudson** 11.35

You're settling down with Sherlock? Why didn't you tell me John?! I'm wounded!

**Harry Watson** 11.57

Shut up Harry. You know what she means.

**John Watson** 12.05

Sure, I'll go and pick out a dress for the wedding then! LOL!

**Harry Watson** 12.07

You and Clara made up then? It's about time. By the way, the last time YOU wore a dress you were ten! Do you have a confession you would like to make?

**John Watson** 12.11

Touche bro! Give me a call later! :D

**Harry Watson** 12.14

I saw that bit on the telly. He was acting? Wow, give the man an Oscar!

**Mike Stamford** 13.17

I do _not_ have a smug look on my face. If you_ must_ know, I am in agony. I thought you called yourself a doctor. Fix it! Now!

**Sherlock Holmes** 13.22

Of course you don't. If you want that black eye fixed, keep that ice pack I gave you on your eye!

**John Watson** 15.08

Your inefficient "ice pack" is dripping on my shirt and based on Molly's dazed look I suspect I am nearly ready to give a wet tee-shirt contestant a run for their money.

**Sherlock Holmes** 15.09

What are you doing in the morgue? Can't I leave you alone for two hours? And, pray tell, what are going to do with one eye in the lab? You sure can't look through a microscope. Get back home and stop torturing Molly!

**John Watson** 15.13

I was trying to distract myself from both the physical pain and the intellectual pain of boredom. Also, I wanted coffee.

**Sherlock Holmes** 15.14

Oh, well, that completely justifies it, doesn't it? Especially the coffee bit. Since you're out, make yourself useful and buy some milk on your way back.

**John Watson** 15.19

John, fetch my revolver.

**Sherlock Holmes** 18.32

* * *

**This story would never have happened without the ladies of Mrs Hudson's Kitchen. I have several people to thank for their encouragement:**

Kate (the death frisbee) for challenging me. Arty (Arty Diane) Pat (Patemalah21) and Lucy (Lucy36) for providing the comments on the fifth and final blog post, you did an absolutely fantastic job! Edhla (Edhla) for genuine critique and support. And the rest of you: MLC (Mapleleaf Cameo) JAL (johnsarmylady) ML1 (mattsloved1) Mrs P (mrspencil) tda (thedragonaunt) Saavikam69, Danara, Seranade, Pip, NightFlowerLuv and everyone that faved and followed.

Cheers! 


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